


Devil in Red

by days4daisy



Category: Penny Dreadful (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Dubious Consent, Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, Masquerade, Post-Series, Reunion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-11
Updated: 2017-07-11
Packaged: 2018-11-17 22:09:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11277768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/days4daisy/pseuds/days4daisy
Summary: “How would you feel about a night’s employment? For old time’s sake?”





	Devil in Red

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thedevilchicken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/gifts).



Winter has fallen on London. Melting ice drips from frozen window sills. It is quiet on the circle. Ethan’s boots carve a line from the main road to the Murray home.

Years have passed, but it still jars Ethan when Sir Malcolm’s face, not Sembene’s, greets him at the door.

Ethan’s hair has grown since the last time he stood in Sir Malcolm’s presence. It slopes to eye level, and the color has kept him youthful. He's trimmed his mustache, and the rest of his face is shaved clean  He wears the same brimmed hat, the same brown overcoat, the same boots. But Ethan’s posture has changed. He walks with a heavier step now, the mourning trudge of a man who has already seen enough for one lifetime.

Sir Malcolm, too, has changed. His posture is still fine, his dress immaculate. His beard is full-gray and neat. His eyes have retained their sharpness, but there is kindness in his smile. A sincerity somehow surprising and becoming all at once.

“Mister Chandler,” Sir Malcolm greets, followed by an embrace. The years wane. In him, Ethan finds a thread to his past - all the horror, the beauty, the unknown. They stand, door half-ajar, holding each other like lost relatives.

“Sir Malcolm,” Ethan greets in kind. Sir Malcolm ushers him inside.

The brightness of the afternoon extends to the entranceway. Light gushes from overhead windows without the aid of any lamps. The house is quiet but does not feel empty. Sir Malcolm has kept it clean, his own doing or hired help? Ethan listens for telltale footsteps but hears nothing.

“Thank you for coming,” Sir Malcolm says.

“Your note said it was urgent.”

“So it is.” Sir Malcolm faces him. “How would you feel about a night’s employment? For old time’s sake?” The question harkens back to a time Ethan hardly remembers. He had no idea what he was getting into when he first entered this house. A hired gun for a rescue mission he could not wrap his mind around.

“What type of employment?”

“A social gathering,” Sir Malcolm says. “I require an escort.”

Ethan raises a brow. “Is this a friendly gathering or no?”

Sir Malcolm weighs the words. “A bit of both, I’m afraid. Do you still carry your weapons?”

Ethan unbuttons his overcoat. His twin pistols hang from a waist holster.

“Good,” Sir Malcolm says. “We may need them. Though, I would ask that you show discretion, Ethan. Draw too soon and we may cause an unnecessary row.”

"Polite _and_ dangerous company,” Ethan surmises, a smile playing at his lips.

Sir Malcolm nods. “Quite, on both counts. I took the liberty of arranging attire. Yours to keep, if you’re so inclined.”

Ethan’s interest rises. “This isn’t appropriate?” He gestures to his current ensemble. Brown slacks and suspenders, gray shirt and his long coat.

“Well-suited to your person, Ethan. But unfit for tonight’s assignment.” Sir Malcolm motions towards the stairs. “First door on the right. I’ve made the room up for you.”

This old refrain again. Ethan sighs kindly. “Thanks, but I’m all right. Got a room out by the docks.”

“Better than the last, I hope?”

Ethan huffs. “It wasn’t that bad.”

“It was drafty,” Sir Malcolm states. “And it smelled of fish.”

“Well, this one is much nicer,” Ethan assures him.

He climbs the steps before he’s forced to hear any more against his current status. It won’t be the first time Sir Malcolm tried to convince him to take a room here. Ethan claims it wouldn’t feel right, owning a room without paying for it. But they both know why he can’t stay in this house. Same reason Victor continues to beg off, claiming that his research keeps him too busy for visits. There are too many memories inside these walls. Too many demons, too much shame.

But the house is warm and inviting today. Sunlight greets him in the guestroom, a cracked window allowing in the afternoon’s crispness. Off-white dressing makes up the bed.

An unmarked box sits on top, tied with a ribbon the color of cabernet. Ethan unlaces it. Inside, a folded black suit sits; above it, a masquerade shroud. Black and subtle with silver intersecting seams.

Polite and dangerous company indeed.

***

Ethan hears music long before the carriage arrives at their destination.

Sir Malcolm is in fine form, black suit somehow both understated and extravagant. His cufflinks gleam, a worthy match for his silver mask. The facade suits him. Ethan, meanwhile, clasps hands between his knees to keep from clawing out of his ensemble. High society never suited him, even as a child from Talbot wealth.

They sit across from each other in the carriage. Sir Malcolm alternates glances between him and the window. The streets sift past in a blur of candles and snow-touched cobblestone. “You’ve been well then?” Sir Malcolm asks. “Applying your trade elsewhere?”

“My trade...” Ethan chuckles. “I’ve found work with my hands. Menial jobs for the most part. It’s how I managed my current room. Door repair, believe it or not.”

“I do,” Sir Malcolm says. “And you feel fulfilled?”

Ethan smiles to himself. “My life is a quiet, unremarkable thing.”

In the old days, an answer like this would have earned a scoff from the famed explorer. But the years have blunted the narcissism of Sir Malcolm. He weighs Ethan’s answer with a thoughtful hum. “Admirable,” he decides.

“And you?” Ethan asks. “Planning your next expedition?”

Sir Malcolm’s eyes glint behind his mask. “Would you believe an old wanderer like me needs a reprieve now and then?”

An impossible idea once upon a time. Now, Ethan accepts the sentiment without hesitation. “Yes,” he says. “And if tonight is any indication, there’s enough adventure at home. You still haven’t told me what we’re looking for.”

“There’s good reason for that,” Sir Malcolm admits. “I don’t know what we’re looking for.”

Ethan raises a brow, but the carriage stops before he can ask. Boots crunch on ice-littered stone, and the door to their carriage is opened. They have arrived at an estate that makes Sir Malcolm’s abode seem quaint. Ethan knows this house, forgotten but familiar. Deja vu gnaws at his heels.

Its open doors are mahogany behind pillars sculpted in the old Roman style. Gold light swims from its entrance like paintings of the gates of Heaven. Its attendees are a menagerie of wealth and silks. Sharp-dressed men and even finer women glisten like masked jewels that belong behind lock and key.

Ethan steps out from their carriage and waits for Sir Malcolm to join him. The masquerade shroud only heightens his unease. It’s as if he’s hiding from something, prey for some predator lurking in the dark. “You needed _me_ for _this_?” Ethan demands as soon as Sir Malcolm joins him.

“Your skills are well-suited to the task,” Sir Malcolm assures him. “Besides, you give yourself too little credit.”

“You don’t even know what the task is, if I'm to believe you.” Ethan stuffs uncomfortable hands in his pockets. “Wasn’t there someone more...credible you could have dressed the part?”

“If you’re referring to Miss Hartdegen, be glad she isn't here to overhear you. And,” Sir Malcolm adds pointedly, “I should always be believed.”

“If you say so,” Ethan grumbles, but Sir Malcolm is already approaching the door. Two men stand outside, black masks over scrutinizing eyes. Both stand shorter than Ethan but are broader to compensate. They accept Sir Malcolm quickly but linger on Ethan with suspicion.

“He’s with me, gentlemen,” Sir Malcolm says. “I’ve not known the head of the house to question a man’s persuasions. Has that changed?” With a shared shrug, the men step aside.

They are well out of earshot by the time Ethan thinks to echo, “Persuasions?”

“Irrelevant,” Sir Malcolm mutters. “Focus on the task at hand, please.”

From outside, the estate took on the hazy outline of a childhood memory. But inside, everything returns to Ethan. The grand assembly bordered by portraits. Decadent in dance and attire, the crowd's faces are covered by masks of increasing exquisiteness.

Ethan goes cold. “I shouldn’t be here."

“You’ve been before,” Sir Malcolm states. They both remember the evening when they met the beast inside Vanessa. The demon who purred over the night Ethan spent in this room.

“Is that why you brought me?”

Sir Malcolm shakes his head. “The location of the gathering isn't important. We are not here for Mister Gray.”

Unpleasantness scratches up Ethan’s spine at the name. “Then why are we here?”

“Because every person in this room will die if we don’t stop it.”

Ethan turns towards him, mouth slipping open in surprise. It takes a few moments to force sound from his lips. “What?”

He’s answered by an envelope from Sir Malcolm's inside pocket. It is an invitation to the estate of Dorian Gray; a masquerade of the divine and other debauchery. And, at the bottom, a promise of the chance to dance with the Devil. Ethan frowns.

Before he can ask, he’s accosted by a flute of champagne. The hand that holds it is familiar. Well-manicured softness that disappears into a shirt the color of rose petals. A smile of recognition makes ice stab through Ethan’s stomach. “Mister Chandler! What a pleasant surprise.”

“Mister Gray,” Ethan mutters, taking the offered drink. A glance assures him that Sir Malcolm is spoken for, glass delivered by a passing server. Dorian's footmen wear masks edged in sharp points like the ears of a cat. They are in contrast to the host himself, his all-gold mask glittering in the lamp light.

Dorian nods politely at the source of Ethan’s attention. “Sir Malcolm. An honor, as always.”

“Likewise, Mister Gray.” Sir Malcolm holds his gaze. “Your affair has been the talk of London.”

“It’s been far too long since I’ve had visitors.” Dorian smiles, at once wistful and empty. “It’s good to see you again, old friend.” His attention slants back to Ethan. “It’s good to see you both.”

A litany of responses, none kind, crouch on Ethan’s tongue. Sir Malcolm speaks before he can unleash them. “I couldn’t resist the intrigue of your invitation. You and the Devil know each other?”

Dorian’s smile loses a touch of its hospitality. “Not as intimately as others, I'm sure. But well enough to extend an invitation.”

“For what purpose?” Ethan demands.

His question earns a chuckle, boyish and derisive. “I’ve missed you, Mister Chandler. We must engage before the night ends. There’s much for us to catch up on.”

“Perhaps,” Sir Malcolm answers for him. Ethan startles at the claiming hand that hooks over his side.

‘Persuasions’ tickles the back of Ethan’s mind. He schools his confusion and softens into the charade. Treating the intimacy as commonplace, he smiles at the hand, and at Dorian.

Dorian sees it too, and his expression glows with greater intrigue. “I’ll hold you both to it then.” He nods to excuse himself and disappears into the fray.

Ethan drops his untouched flute of champagne onto the tray of a passing server. At Sir Malcolm’s arched brow, Ethan grumbles, “I don’t take drinks in this house.”

“Ah,” Sir Malcolm acknowledges, without further prompting.

Ethan glances around the crowd, then leans in. Sir Malcolm's arm shifts, drawing Ethan closer, as if to share a private moment. Ethan's narrowed eyes follow the departure of Dorian through the crowd. “He’s baiting you,” he says.

Sir Malcolm nods agreement. “Not as closely acquainted with the Devil as others, he said.”

It is a situation Sir Malcolm anticipated, clearly. Which means he anticipated another aspect of the evening too. “You wanted to see his reaction to me.”

“Surprised by your appearance,” Sir Malcolm observes, not denying it. “It seems you made an impression all those years ago.”

The line of thought is a dead end to Ethan. Dorian's fascination was never with him but with Miss Ives. No doubt, it is the reason why Malcolm has drawn Dorian's interest too. But why now? Why, after all these years?

“If he’s baiting you, what’s with this whole get-up?" Ethan wonders. "Why invite all these people?”

Sir Malcolm’s smile is wry. “Our Mister Gray is a showman. How often can a man promote the chance to dance with the Devil?”

***

The evening progresses, opulent and full of excess. Men and women wear their most enticing fabrics, colors co-mingling in the main hall. A quartet plays in a corner. Drink flows. Laughter bellows and waltzes become intimate as evening bruises to a deep blue.

Ethan wishes he could rip the mask from his face. His eyes are ever-vigilant but feel stifled by the mold. His clothes, immaculate as they fit, are a prison. They are tailored too well for the task, restricting hands that itch to thumb the hilts of his pistols.

Sir Malcolm does not stay in one place for long. Sometimes he is gone for half an hour, only to circle back, a champagne flute in hand that looks untouched.

Their host also seems to take his leave for minutes at a time. To greet guests? Or some other purpose, grand candelabra in hand.

“He’s hiding something,” Ethan insists upon Sir Malcolm’s latest return.

He freezes, startled by the mouth that touches his without warning. Thin lips and the scratch of a graying beard. “What-” Ethan gapes, but he’s interrupted.

“To my left,” Sir Malcolm mutters.

Ethan glances past him, to where Dorian Gray looks on with a bemused smile. Beside him stands a figure cloaked in red. It wears a black mask beneath its hood, robes draped down to black shoes.

“Is that him?” Ethan wonders. “Why did you-”

“Look around you, Ethan,” Sir Malcolm says.

The music has stopped. Bodies pause mid-sway. Mouths entwine as if no one else is around. Hands fit on corset tops and beneath gowns. Suit buttons are unbound and shirts follow. Men and women, men and men, women and women.

Ethan stares until a hand on his face urges him back. Serious eyes grasp his.

That is when Ethan feels the strange prickle under his skin. It taps like a dance, a surge of unknown interest. An odd thought, true but not visited in many years. Affection for a man who has been like a surrogate father to him. Who has seen his darkest evils, and whose horrors Ethan knows all-too well. Narcissism blunted by loss to a softened nub.

He looks at the masked face of Sir Malcolm like a revelation. Where would Sir Malcolm begin if given the opportunity? Does he take his time with every inch? Or is he too driven by pursuit of a goal, ripping garments until he reaches his final destination?

“Do you feel it?” Sir Malcolm asks.

“Yes,” Ethan grits, voice rough with a desire. Warm, desperate, he hisses, “We didn’t drink anything.”

“We didn’t,” Sir Malcolm agrees. A thumb traces the edge of Ethan’s mask. At once gentle and firm; what a disciplinarian Malcolm must be in all walks of life. Something stutters in Ethan’s chest. Heat blossoms through his skin, making his suit uncomfortable.

Ethan wants to grab Sir Malcolm’s face and kiss him. He pursued Mister Gray with equal fervor in this room. Temporary madness, unable to stop himself.

Sir Malcom is warm under his clothes. Unexpected need churns in Ethan’s gut.

“Can you fight it, Mister Chandler?”

Ethan notes his return to formality. His head bows to Sir Malcolm’s brow, hair sloping over their masks. Ethan nods, but his hands shake. His forehead knits under his shroud.

He doesn’t know what’s happening to him or why, but he’ll fight. Ethan has spent his whole life fighting. But he can’t seem to let go of Malcolm’s clothes. Ethan itches to unfasten every last stitch.

“Good,” Sir Malcolm says. “Because I’m not sure that I can.”

For the first time, Ethan sees the struggle on Sir Malcolm’s snarling lips. His downcast eyes, sharp and hungry. Ethan's vision blurs. His only stability is Sir Malcolm’s body under his hands.

Ethan nods downward, meaning to steal a quick kiss. But he never pulls back, pursuing with a desperation that shivers through his limbs. Sir Malcolm’s lips remain thin and stern, ever the authoritarian. His hands canvass Ethan's body through his clothes. Ethan deepens their kiss, lips parted to taste.

“Ethan,” Sir Malcolm sighs.

Ethan knows he's frustrated Sir Malcolm. Or maybe it's resignation he hears. 

“I can’t stop." A frantic gasp between kisses. Emotion Ethan didn't know he had, he isn't even sure it's real. “I can't stop.”

“I know,” Sir Malcolm murmurs. “It's all right.” But it isn't.

***

When the first person dies, no one notices.

The quartet has picked up its cue, swells of melody like the curves of a body. Crescendos of a ribcage, scales rounded like thighs under eager hands. Ethan's suit is still on. The room feels hot as the Nile.

Around him, the possessed's moans mingle with curses and heady breaths. Tongues taste forbidden skin. Suits are left in heaps on tiles. Garters snap and corsets are unlaced. Lips trace spines and between spread legs.

The corpse is a middle-aged man with a bald spot. Rotund, well-dressed in a white tux. His bones thump on the floor, shattering like glass. The waltz serenades him.

Sighs become screams, and Ethan is trapped in questions. Why did he wait for this? Why, when he could have taken Sir Malcolm whenever he pleased? But no, Ethan needed permission. He needed Sir Malcolm’s mouth guiding his to open.

All Sir Malcolm needs is a look and a push. Ethan drops to his knees immediately, face against SIr Malcolm’s stomach. He begins on the buttons, freeing skin and hair. A strong body hardened by years of exploration. The wanderlust has been Sir Malcolm's fountain of youth.

Ethan feels unwell. He notes his dizziness as Sir Malcolm’s fingers travel through his hair. They pause on a brow warm with fever. His face is pink with it, and he pants for breath. His mouth opens to tease a nipple already pebbled to fit curled lips.

Ethan’s suit sticks to him. He wants to rip it off. He wants to present himself on his hands and knees. He wants to fuck and suck cock and let Malcolm flood him inside. He wants to let all these people watch, even the Devil himself.

The next person to die is a woman. She has dark ringlets and a baby blue dress, peeled to expose snowy breasts. They shiver when she takes her final breath.

Vanessa fought the darkness. She gouged nails into her arms and legs. She died in Ethan's arms for the sake of everyone.

Ethan remembers the swell of Wagner, absinthe, and Dorian Gray. He remembers renouncing his faith, tongue between Hecate’s legs.

Vanessa fought. Vanessa would fight this. Ethan is not her, and he never will be.

A thumb crosses a crease on his forehead. Ethan finds Sir Malcolm watching him. Dark eyes and mouth pressed in a stern line. Something throbs in Ethan’s chest, unsettled and hungry. His mouth embraces the start in the front of Sir Malcolm’s slacks.

***

The music dies. Bodies dress the floor in a tapestry of skin and clothes. Blood trickles between floor tiles, cherry red on pale skin. Masked faces, anonymous in death, tangle in a macabre orgy.

Ethan's legs hang from the plum velvet seat. His suit is still on, a disheveled mess on his sweat-stained body. He’s draped over Sir Malcolm; head reclined, arms extended along the back of the loveseat. His shirt is open. His pants, also open. His cock, glossed from Ethan’s mouth.

Ethan gasps for air. The room’s supply tastes thin. His eyes are glazed. The fire in the hearth is roasting him.

Ethan bows his head and pulls Sir Malcolm in again. He tastes like salt. Ethan feels drunk despite lack of drink. His head is floating. His heart rumbles sluggishly.

Across the room, Mister Gray perches on a sofa and watches them. His gold mask glints like the blade of a knife. Lips purse under one slender finger.

Between them stands the figure in red. Shrouded, skin gray as a cadaver. It approaches on feet that make no sound. Its eyes are hidden by a mask of black. Pits of oil where the irises should be.

A hand strokes Ethan’s hair, an approving master rewarding its hound. Ethan drinks in the scent of Sir Malcolm. The slope of his thighs. The ridges of his cock.

He does not hear the creature, but he feels its approach. The demon is a weight against his back, something so cold it burns.

“Now, Mister Chandler,” Sir Malcolm says.

Without thought, Ethan draws a pistol from under his jacket. He fires without looking. Muscle memory, aim true with his mind too blank to focus.

A scream makes Ethan’s head pound. Blood trickles from his ears.

“Again,” Sir Malcolm orders.

Ethan fires again. And again. And again. Screeches answer, high-pitched and inhuman.

At once, the spell is broken. Ethan can stand. He draws both pistols. Red robes blossom with crimson stains. Fangs snarl behind graying lips. black eyes fill with fire.

Ethan aims between them. The hooded head snaps back, and the creature falls. It does not move again.

Ethan uses the back of one hand to wipe his mouth. The other points a pistol at the still-seated Dorian Gray. Sir Malcolm joins him, clothing replaced. Their host claps from his seat as if the threat is not real.

“Why?” Sir Malcolm demands.

Dorian tilts his head. “Do you miss her?” he wonders, wistful and alone. “I do.”

Ethan and Sir Malcolm exchange a look. In unspoken agreement, they leave through the front door.

***

“Not the Devil,” Sir Malcolm decides. Their carriage clops across abandoned streets. His mask, removed, sits over one knee.

Ethan tugs at his tuxedo until it hangs loose around his neck. He breathes a little easier without it, and his mask. In the small carriage space, one of Ethan’s knees fits between Sir Malcolm’s. At turns, their legs touch, and memory stirs. Fragments, like a kaleidoscope of touch.

The carriage stops before the Murray home. Sir Malcolm descends first, his hand braced on the open door. He turns back to Ethan. “My driver will escort you home.”

Ethan frowns, chews a cheek. “That room you got upstairs-”

“Yours tonight,” Sir Malcolm interrupts, expression taking on a strange softness. “And as long as you’d like it.”

Ethan stalks behind Sir Malcolm into the manor. He shoots cursory looks up the stairs and into the study. No vampires. No demons. No monsters of any kind, save the two of them.

“Goodnight then,” Sir Malcolm bids. He climbs the stairs, and Ethan follows.

Ethan checks the upstairs hallway. He checks his guest room. Hardest of all, he checks the abandoned quarters that once belonged to Vanessa. It has no furniture in it now. Emptiness in a place that once held too much to fathom.

Sir Malcolm looks up when Ethan enters his room. He’s lit a lamp, the bedroom a comfortable gold. His mask sits on the foot of the bed. Suit jacket, draped over a bed post.

“About tonight-” Ethan starts.

“Water under the bridge." Sir Malcolm offers a patient smile. “Now, we figure out what that creature was and if there are any more of its kind. That is the task she’s left for us.”

‘She’ fills the room like a balloon about to burst.

Ethan smells of gunpowder, sweat, and Malcolm’s body. “It’s not water under the bridge,” he mumbles.

Sir Malcolm contemplates him with a frown. “Is that so?”

Ethan wants water. He thinks about the kitchen downstairs, or the faucet in the washroom. He thinks about the salt of Sir Malcolm’s skin, the hunger still burning low in his belly.

Sir Malcolm looks him over. “You’ve been through an ordeal,” he says.

“What about you? What have you been through?” When Sir Malcolm doesn’t answer, Etham pushes harder. “Why’d you take me tonight?”

“I knew you could handle it,” Sir Malcolm answers. “You always do.” Ethan shakes his head, worries his lip between his teeth. “Get some sleep, Ethan,” Sir Malcolm says, peeling out of his dress shirt.

Ethan closes the door to the bedroom. He is still inside. Sir Malcolm pauses on the button over his stomach. His chest is already exposed, hair mussed by the earlier rub of Ethan’s mouth.

“Safety in numbers,” Ethan suggests, but even he does not believe it.

“If that's what you want.”

“What do you want?” Ethan presses.

Sir Malcolm sighs  "You know the answer to that." Ethan thinks he does. He stays.

*The End*


End file.
